


All We Have

by JK Ashavah (ashavah)



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Gen, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 20:09:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashavah/pseuds/JK%20Ashavah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas time in Korea, and all the denizens of the 4077th have is each other. Hawkeye takes a moment to remind Margaret just what that means.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All We Have

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stephanie](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=stephanie).



> Many thanks to my friends for the inspiration and my sister for the editing.

_Dear Dad,_

_It's December in Korea. Winter, when the wind starts blowing in from Manchuria and the army - in all its wisdom - gives us the supplies we asked for in summer. We got a delivery of mosquito nets and salt tablets yesterday. 'Course, with all the holes in the mosquito nets, they're not much good at keeping out the cold. Unlike the blankets Radar actually asked for. I'm sure we'll get them in time for the Fourth of July. If we're lucky. But you know the army. If something's logical, then it can't happen for at least six months, by which time it's no longer logical._

_It's another Christmas we were meant to be home for. I know Christmas is typically considered a happy time of year, but for those of us stuck over here thanks to the infinite wisdom of the world's leaders, it's kind of depressing. Gloom seems to descend over the whole place, despite Father Mulcahy's best efforts to decorate the place with popcorn and thermometers and whatever else he can get his hands on that might add a festive air. But we can't kid ourselves into believing we'd rather be here than anywhere else._  
  
Hawkeye reaches out to the martini glass sitting beside him, and takes a gulp. It's the last of the martini, and he stares, disappointed, into the glass before heaving a melodramatic sigh. The simple solution to the empty glass, of course, would be to just pour another martini. But there's nobody around, with Charles on leave and BJ on post-op duty,  and, really, he's not in a mood to be alone. It's that gloom he was just writing about settling over the 4077th, and that includes him. Besides, when did Benjamin Franklin Pierce ever do things the easy way? Never, that's when. So he puts down the empty glass and gathers up his pen and paper and shoves them deep into his pockets. He swings his feet off his bunk and stands up. It's time for a change of scenery.

Outside, it's just as bitterly cold as he was writing about to his father. He flips up the collar of his coat and crosses his arms across his chest as he turns into the wind. The coat's enough to keep it off his body, but it hits his face like a bucket of ice water. Korea. What a place to be.

"Agh!" he cries as a particularly harsh gust of wind batters him.

The Officers' Club is close, and there will be a fire, and probably some companionship, there. He hurries across the compound, pausing only to nod to Klinger scurrying past towards his office. When he opens the door of the club, the warmth stings in sudden contrast to the outside air. He shudders and heads for the bar, unbuttoning his coat. The pen and paper go on the bar as he slides onto a stool.

"Hey, Igor. Give me a beer."

"Sure thing, Captain." Igor digs under the bar and passes a bottle over. Hawkeye raises it to him and turns to survey the scene in the club. It's busy, as he expected; a couple of the nurses are sitting at one table, Kellye's up dancing, and Father Muclahy's sitting at the piano, providing the music. There's even a game of poker going on between some of the enlisted men at one table.

"No martinis tonight?" He looks back down the bar to where Margaret's sitting, scotch in hand.

"Nah, I decided I've killed enough brain cells for one night." He gestures to the pen and paper, a tacit indication that he's got a little more than drinking to do tonight. Margaret shrugs and takes a deep gulp of her scotch. That's usually a bad sign where she's concerned, but he knows better than to assume that commenting on that fact would necessarily be taken particularly well. She's come a long way, Margaret, since the times of their old incessant bickering and dislike (sometimes blossoming into hatred) for each other, but, well, she's a complicated woman. To put it mildly. And, in general, she tends to dislike people seeing too much of that.

But like he was writing to his father, this is a time of year when they all get a little depressed. Why should she be any different? There's no reason, and were he making a guess, he'd say that she's not. Regular army or draftees, they're all a long way from home, and they've all been a long way from home for far more time than any of them want. And back in America, there are people getting ready for Christmas without a thought to those who, without any choice in the matter, will be spending the day a long way from everyone they care about.

"Igor. Same again." They both watch in silence as Igor pours another measure of scotch into her glass.

Hawkeye looks across at her as she raises the glass to her lips and drinks. He considers not saying anything, but what kind of friend would he be if he didn't? This place is hell, they all know that. Really, it's only the other people here that keep any of them sane.

"Is there a particular reason you're drinking like you want to kill yours?"

She shrugs and puts down the glass.

"Oh, I think we all have reason to drink like we're killing brain cells."

Well, that's a non-answer if ever he heard one. But it's not a flat-out denial and, where she's concerned, that's almost an open invitation to ask more.

"Yeah well, like they say, war's hell." He lifts the beer to her and takes a long draught. "Especially at this time of year."

"The time of year has nothing to do with it," she says sharply, but the pause before she says it is just a little too long for the words to be in any way believable. He looks down at the bar, at the rings left on its surface by moisture. He's spent so much time in here that he should know them all just about as well as he's come to know the insides of the human body. He doesn't. Whether that's because he hasn't spent enough time looking at them or because they change, he wouldn't care to guess.

"Look," he says when he looks up again. He leans an arm on the bar and studies her, even as she scoffs. That's a bit rough, dismissing what he has to say before he's even finished. But that's Margaret for you. "You know, if it were the time of year, you wouldn't be alone."

She sighs.

"All this," she says, gesturing around at the strings of popcorn draped around the walls, at the pine boughs tied to the walls, "is just another reminder that another year's gone by, and for what? What do I have to show for it?" She glances down at her left hand, the fingers now empty of rings after the divorce.

"I dunno. What do any of us have to show? I know I haven't made any wonderful advances."

She lets out another dismissive snort, and he knows it's not the same. He knows he's younger, he knows she's ambitious, knows she has plans for her life. He was there when she was engaged, when she was married, when she made the decision to file for divorce. He knows the toll that took on her and her dreams. She had real hopes for where her life was going. But didn't they all, before the war took them away from their old lives? Their lives have all been interrupted, all put on hold for years now, and who knows how much longer it will be?

"Look, we all had things we wanted to do. I guess we just have to make the best of what we have."

The look in her eyes is sceptical, though what particular part of what he said caused the scepticism, he's not sure. She used to have so much faith in what she does, in the army, in the war. But hell, this place has changed them all, her no less than him or any of the rest of them. Seems to him that she's a lot less convinced of those things than she used to be.

"Come on, Margaret. This place stinks, we all know that. But hey, at least we've got something."

"What's that?"

His eyes meet her, and he can see a fleeting look of loneliness in her eyes. That loneliness they all feel here.

"Other people. Other lonely people." He grins and leans towards her, holding out a hand. "Friends. Come on, let's dance."

She looks at his hand for a long, long moment. Maybe what he's said hasn't gotten through to her. Maybe she's in one of those moods where nothing will lighten the fog of homesickness and loneliness. But then she smiles too, and it's such a beautiful smile that she has, that it chases the shadow from her eyes. She places a hand in his and slips off the stool. The music's upbeat, and they don't dance close or slow. But they do dance, and by the end of the first song, there's a little more laughter in her expression.

Friendship means something more here, after all.

_Of course, Dad, it's not all bad at this time of year. There are people here I never would have met without this place. And that would be kind of a shame. I've wound up closer to them than I've ever been to just about anyone. It's kind of hard to explain._

_But really, we're all we've got. So we make do, even at this time of year._

_And just hope we'll be home this time next year._


End file.
